


drew a line across the middle of my broken heart

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Depression, Friendship, Gen, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitchie’s text just says <em>Fuck Lombardi, eh?</em> and then a fist emoji.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drew a line across the middle of my broken heart

Mike hasn’t answered his phone in three days. He waits until it goes to voice mail, then looks, and only calls back if the call was from his agent or his mother. 

It’s July, and there’s too much light. It cuts through the self-protective haze he’s trying to wrap himself in. He has to keep acknowledging that this is happening. All of this is happening. Everything has ended up here.

His phone rings, and he waits. When it falls silent, he picks it up and looks at the screen. A missed call from… that’s unexpected. What the hell could Willie Mitchell have to say?

The voice mail symbol doesn’t come up. He takes a breath, careful, testing his own reaction. It’s surprisingly steady. He takes another one and hits the icon to call back.

“Hey, Richie.” Willie sounds calm, cheerful. Fuckin’ hippie that he is.

“Hey.” Mike looks out the window and blinks. It’s so bright outside. He needs fewer windows. More curtains. Something like that.

“You in Kenora?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.” Mike turns his back to the window and looks at the carpet, instead. “Up at the lake.”

“Anything biting?” Mike can’t imagine why Mitchie wants to hold up the illusion that he called to talk about fish. It’s less awful than acknowledging reality, though, so… so okay.

“I haven’t been out. I’m just… here.”

“Well, I’m back home, too. Up on the Isle for the summer. Wondered if you want to come out and go out and do some deep-water stuff.”

Mike’s breath catches in his chest. “Deep-water?” he asks, stupid, because he has to say _something_.

“The ocean, man.” Mitchie giggles a little. “You know. That big water thing. Lots of fish and whales and shit. It’s a good time.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Mike turns again, looks out the window, watches the too-much-light reflect off the lake. “I… I don’t think… I don’t think I can.” He rubs the back of his head, wishing his voice was more level. “But, uh. Thanks for asking. Seriously. It, um. Means…” He sighs. “You know.”

“I get it.” Mitchie’s voice is still steady and calm, but lower. “If you change your mind, just let me know. Standing invitation.”

“Thanks.” Van Isle is on the other side of the goddamn continent. But Mitchie means this invitation completely. Mike can tell. “Thanks. I… I’ll let you know. I’ve gotta go.”

“Bye,” he hears, as he swipes vaguely at the screen to hang up. He tosses his phone on the table and goes back to his bedroom, where he can close the blinds and hide from all of this for a while.

**

It’s October, and he sort of feels like himself again. In some ways. Himself, but with part of him missing, maybe. Saying it was his heart would be too on-the-nose, and not… not big enough. A couple of limbs, maybe. A chunk of his torso.

He’s soft, everywhere, his muscles fading a little more with every day he doesn’t put on skates. It feels like he’s disappearing, sometimes. Other times it’s like he’s transforming into something else, and maybe once he finishes changing it won’t hurt so bad anymore. Like a motherfucking caterpillar to a butterfly.

Most days he rolls his eyes at his own bullshit, but some days he believes it, and that’s how he knows he’s getting better, a little bit. 

When the arbitration deal is handed down, he gets a hundred texts and calls telling him congratulations. Some of them are from guys who’ve had his back all along. Some of them are from guys who didn’t come out of the woodwork until right now. He doesn’t respond to any of them, but he reads the ones from the first group with a smile, and the second group with a silent thought of _fuck you_ before he deletes them. 

He isn’t going to forget. He doesn’t have, like, grandiose revenge schemes or anything weird like that. (What could he do to anybody? Nothing. What could he do _for_ anybody? Nothing.) But he’s not going to forget, either. He knows who actually gives a fuck and who doesn’t.

Mitchie’s text just says _Fuck Lombardi, eh?_ and then a fist emoji. Mike can’t stop giggling at it. Fuck Lombardi with a fist, that’s right. Fuck Lombardi. Fuck him for believing in Mike in the first place, because if something didn’t happen in the first place than it couldn’t hurt when it was taken away. And fuck him for thinking this was something Mike was doing on purpose, like he _wanted_ everything he had to fall apart, like he _wanted_ his body and mind to fail him, like he… he…

Fuck Lombardi for giving up on him. Fuck Lombardi for walking away and leaving Mike to crawl.

(Mike isn’t unfair. He knows exactly how much he himself is to blame. The difference being that Lombardi still has his career, and his life, and _hockey_ , while Mike is already completely fucked.)

He wants to respond to Mitchie with… with something, but he can’t think of anything good, so he settles for keeping the text instead of deleting it. He goes down to sit by the dull, almost-sleeping autumn lake and think vaguely about how maybe it wouldn’t totally suck to go out to Van Isle next summer.

**

Late November, and the sky keeps pissing rain. Mike spends a lot of time looking out at how it dances on the surface of the lake.

Some days are better than others, that’s for sure. His RCMP hearing is coming up soon. He has his proof that he’s sought treatment, that he’s completed counseling. He’s got a rehearsed little statement about willingness to do community service, maybe even including educational lectures to NHL rookies. 

He cannot imagine anything he wants to do less than he wants to do that, but his lawyer says it will sound good, so… whatever. If the judge actually says he has to do it, he’ll figure it out then. He would much rather pick up litter at the side of the road, or serve food at a soup kitchen, or clean up after abandoned puppies. Then again, rookies are kind of like puppies, and are known to shit themselves.

He’s able to laugh at that, a little bit.

His lawyer has a neat collection of letters vouching for his character, from people who were willing to put down in legal documentation that they believe he can put himself back together. Jeff wrote one. Cabbie. Giroux, though the lawyer isn’t sure they’ll submit that one, given the givens. Mitchie.

Mitchie who, when Mike called to see if he’d do it, just asked if it would be better if he flew up and spoke at the hearing in person. Like that would be realistic at all, ducking out on his team in the middle of the season to stand up for a has-been.

“I’m retiring at the end of the season,” Mitchie had said. “The kids have to learn to get along without me at some point.”

“You have any questions about retirement?” Mike had asked. “I can tell you all about it. It’s fucking boring. Stay if they’ll keep you, man.”

“You want me to talk to them about giving you a PTO?”

He just _asked that_ , like it was _reasonable_ , like it was a thing that would ever, ever, in a million years, happen. Fucking Mitchie. Crazy Island jackass.

“No,” Mike had said, when he could breathe again. “No, don’t… but thanks for the offer. It means. You know.”

“Yeah.” Mitchie sounded so goddamn calm, like always.

“If the hearing goes okay,” Mike heard himself say, “and I’m allowed to leave the country again, maybe I’ll come down and you can show me what the fishing’s like down there.”

“Absolutely.” No hesitation. “Standing invitation, man. Any time.”

Now, Mike clasps and unclasps his hands, looking out at the rain. He’s ready for winter, the long dark quiet, but he’s also starting to think about the return of spring.


End file.
